Bayojeanne week - The Gates of Hell
by SilaswereWolfie
Summary: Jeanne sips her drink and eyes Rodin with a contempt her alcohol level no longer lets her ignore. She has words for the ever mysterious proprietor and he, in turn, has answers that are hard to swallow. Written for the Bayojeanne Week


It's not that Jeanne was a princess. No, the fact she had grown up in the lap of luxury of the most powerful Clan in the realm was not what made her frown with carefully cultivated disgust at having to be hanging around Cereza's favorite hellhole of a bar.

The Gates of Hell, for all its fame, had sparse customers at all times. Groups looking to be dangerous fleeted in from time to time, from criminals on bikes to mobsters all lit up like a novice on Summer's Eve when they stumbled into the dimly lit lounge. Fortunately for her, those sorts of boorish patrons quickly scurried away when the nature of the proprietor and his more permanent patrons seeped into their bones.

At present time, Jeanne was sitting at the bar nursing about her fifth 'whatever will get me the drunkest the fastest' and it was, moon's blessing, a quiet night. The Redgrave boy ( "Just call him Luka, Jeanne" played in her mind in Cereza's mildly stern voice) plucked a more or less harmonic tune on a piano she had just noticed was there while Bayonetta hovered about with the occasional snark.

Rodin was standing a ways away from her, wiping a ridiculous glass of a size so small she was not entirely sure what was served on them. He looked as he always did, placid and composed but utterly unreachable, like an unfathomable entity trying to blend into a reality not of his own and failing.

And thus, was her reason for avoiding the Gates of Hell. Rodin was an enigma wrapped in at least five other enigmas and with a tale so tall, angels would squawk at the intrusion. Jeanne had not survived as long as she had without a Clan if she was stupid enough to get mixed in with the likes of him.

What she hadn't been counting on was the Left Eye of Darkness barreling onto the scene like a train accident, with no memories of anything whatsoever and force her out of her solitude and good habits.

And her prison. (That she was forever grateful for but that was a definitely a reflection for another day)

Now, mingling with Rodin was frequent and she didn't like it any better. He knew too much, talked too little and as the fifth…whatever she had downed settled in, Jeanne remembered there was something that had yet to sit right with her.

"Why didn't you tell her?" Was what she found herself blurting, momentarily forgetting this was a person she did well to avoid quizzing too hard.

The faint squeak of the towel rubbing against the microscopic glass stopped and without missing a beat, he replied "Didn't tell her what?"

Jeanne bristled, her better judgement clouded by booze and exhaustion which had the unfortunate side effect of bringing out her combative side. "Don't play games with me. You could have told Cereza she wasn't the last Umbra 20 fucking years ago."

To his credit, he grunted and fished another of his inordinately undersized glasses to dry. She was about to shove one of her guns right under his perpetual shades when he deigned to reply to her. "There was no other Umbra to care about, at least not one Bayonetta should go tangle with."

His eyes, a burning red behind the tinted glass, bore into her and she resisted the undignified urge to squirm in her seat.

She noticed Cereza had stopped ribbing the boy's not terrible piano playing and was paying attention to their conversation. Far enough she couldn't hear but close enough to intervene if needed be.

At his words, Jeanne growled and gulped her half glass in one go, slamming it back down on the worn down bar before the intense burn hit her throat.

She didn't like being reminded of that but then again why had she asked? Her defensiveness had just skyrocketed into legendary levels and it was a minor miracle she wasn't pummeling Rodin with her fists then and there. Probably because she made it a point to not fight with someone currently pouring her 6th drink.

"She didn't need coddling, she needed answers." Her tone was dark and low, to anyone else it would have a clear warning but he wasn't the average entity.

"Puppets don't talk truths, your highness, and the machinations of the Trinity of Realities are" he paused with a dramatic flair of his large hand that ignited several flames dancing around his fist in an erratic pattern "shall we say…Best left undisturbed."

The anger simmered low on her chest with a building crescendo but she said nothing else and Rodin snuffed out his little display.

She breathed into the large glass for several beats, the intense mix of alcohol and Sheba knew what else burning her airways. So what, *so what* if she had been at Balder's beck and call for literal centuries, hadn't she earned her "Having Cereza's Best Interest At Heart" badge well before that?

All the rational, perceptive parts of her had taken a walk at the moment and she was left alone with the raw, undiluted maelstrom that were her conflicted feelings and sheer, unaddressed trauma. Her guilt hounded her, her pride couldn't deal with it and there she was, caught in the middle.

After the ever so mysterious proprietor turned his back to the bar to gaze at the rows upon rows of bottles stored as high as the dump would allow it, she spoke again.

"What of the guns then? You made them for me, as powerful and mastercrafted as any other the Smith Of The Gods had ever produced." His back remained turned but the tension in his frame betrayed his attention. " I doubt they are your magnum opus, all things considered, but they are exceptional and you knew what they were for."

The rumbling chuckle surprised her more than what it should have, Rodin wasn't a man famous for his patience or his sunny disposition. "As I said, who am I to stand in the way of events. I'm here to make shit and kick ass and luckily for all of you freaks" His eyes flared a deep, bright red when he turned back around and leaned into her bar space. "I still ain't out of shit to make."

As his massive, corded arms shoved themselves way too deep in her personal space, she frowned and tensed tighter than a hangman's noose.

Fucker, timeless elder God wannabe or not, was asking for it and by Sheba's infernal knickers she was going to give it to him.

Her ill advised motion to rise and distribute some well placed bullets was halted by a strong hand settling on her shoulder.

Cereza looked at her with worried eyes, searching as they often did for cracks to soothe.

Jeanne nearly growled at her, the frustration bubbling into a hot boil she couldn't deal with but Bayonetta didn't deserve it. Closing her eyes for a second, she leaned into her arm and did her best to center herself.

"Besides" Jeanne snapped her eyes open and glared with frank openness at Rodin as a hint of a smirk ghosted over his features. "I don't know what you're complaining about. Didn't you get the girl in the end?"

The gated back section slammed open by itself, startling the hipster boys in the far corner that had been looking to bolt for the better part of an hour. Without waiting for her reaction, he disappeared just as theatrically as he has expounded on metaphysics and Jeanne was left alone with her turbulent thoughts and a worried lover.

"What in God's name was that all about?"


End file.
